Loyalty Above Anything
by RagnhildK
Summary: Sherlock returns three years after TRF to discover that John has started working for Mycroft. "I've waited for you for three years. Now you will have to wait for me to finish this operation." "And how long will that be?" "Six months." Of course Sherlock can't keep his nose out of others' business. This is a story about loyalty and when you're conflicted by it. Friendship. BAMF!John
1. The Job Interview

**A/N: Do a prologue have to be short? I sincerely hope not. I want this to be a prologue because it will be a jump in time between this chapter and the next. This has not been brit-picked or betaed. Still, I hope you enjoy.**

**I owe nothing.**

****Prologue

The Job Interview

* * *

Why was everything so _bright_? The sun was so intense, making everything white and blurry at the edges. John knew it was because he had been sitting inside in the dark flat for three weeks, but seriously. How could it be so bright? It should be raining, a storm should be raging, the wind should be howling. But no, people was wearing shorts and basking in the sun. It was all just wrong. How could the world go on like nothing had happened at all? How could they all just go on with their lives without feeling the impact of the world most extraordinary human being obliterated from the face of the earth? John realized he hated them for being happy. The worst of the media hassle was over so people didn't care anymore. He would have screamed at them, but he was too tired right now.

For 23 days… No. He had promised himself not to count days. It wasn't healthy. For three weeks, he corrected himself, Mrs. Hudson had done his shopping and made him food. For three weeks John had been lying on the couch, only getting up to pluck at his food and turn off the light when Mrs. Hudson turned it on. Today she told him that he could go out to get the groceries himself. The media wouldn't harass him anymore and she was after all not his housekeeper. He knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to get him back to society, and she had realized that fussing any more over him would be counterproductive to his health. She was a good woman. God, John hated her. He would have told her to stay away, but he was too tired.

John's leg was hurting from the walking and he clutched his cane. He would have gotten a cab, but the thought of having to be in such a small space together with another human made him nauseous. The thought of having to enter Tesco's and push around all the people made him even more nauseous.

It was then the black car pulled up next to him. The dark windows were gleaming in the light as if to mock him. If there was someone John hated most of all, then it was Mycroft. That self-pompous, egocentric… John's blood was boiling just at the thought. Mostly because he knew he couldn't blame him for what had happened. He wanted to blame Mycroft so much that it hurt, but he had seen the man's eyes at the funeral. John had wanted so dearly to yell at him, scream, but he could see in his eyes that Mycroft was punishing himself more than enough. He couldn't bring himself to yell, and he knew he would have to forgive Mycroft someday. Still, that day was not today. John gave the tire of the car a good kick and walked off to peoples' amazed stares.

The car didn't follow him, but now the phone boots along his way started ringing. It was strange, really. It wasn't like Mycroft to pull the same trick twice. He reached Tesco's, but couldn't stand to enter because of the nauseous feeling. He kept walking, but had to stop at a light crossing. The black car stopped conveniently next to him at the exact moment he received a text.

_Get in the car, Dr. Watson. I can do this the whole day. You can of course just go home, unless you don't want the power to come and go every fifth minute for the next week. –MH_

John had to roll his eyes. For someone who preferred calling, that was a long text. It wasn't like he would notice if the power went out anyway. He didn't cook and didn't turn on the lights. Still, he sighed in defeat and got in the car. He was just too tired to fight right now. At another time he would have given Mycroft a run for his money, he told himself, but not today. Anthea was in the car, but John didn't look at her as he settled down, and she didn't look at him.

Relief washed over him when he realized they were going to Mycroft's office in parliament, and not the Diagonese club. The memories from the club were still too raw. John didn't really register the walk through the heavy security corridors before he was standing in Mycroft's office and the man looked up at him from some important looking papers. The eyes were observing him, taking in all the clues as to where John had been and what he had been doing. It felt almost refreshing before the rage took hold of him again. He would have punched Mycroft in the face, yes, that's what he would have done. Then he would have yelled at the stupid man just what he thought about him and slammed the door before he left. But not today. Today he was too tired. Instead he sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft's desk.

"I'm so glad you took time out of your busy schedule to come see me, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said in his most pretentious polite tone while pretend tiding his already tidy desk. John just rolled his eyes. Everyone today seemed to try to make him take a grip at himself. But then he registered the bitterness in Mycroft's voice. Could it be that Mycroft was… _jealous_? Jealous that John had the possibility to mourn properly, call the surgery and say he wouldn't be coming in for some days (weeks), lay on the couch in the dark and ignore everyone? John narrowed his eyes at the man, trying to imagine him doing these things.

"I'll cut strait to the point, Doctor," Mycroft said in a businesslike tone while folding his hands on the desk. The bitterness was now untraceable, but his eyes where still cold. "I want to offer you a job."

John snorted.

"Are you that worried about me, Mycroft?" he asked mockingly. Of course Mycroft would begin a job interview with a kidnapping.

"Of course not," Mycroft answered while he rose from his desk and walked over to the window. "You no longer have any connection to anyone of_ importance_. I have no reason to watch over you or to be concerned of your well-being." Mycroft stood with his back to John, looking out of the window. John knew this was the closest he would get to hearing Mycroft say he missed his brother.

"However, I would be a fool to turn a blind eye when I see a man with the trait I want most in my employs, especially when he shows it in such great amounts." Mycroft turned and bore his eyes into John, scrutinizing, analyzing. John didn't flinch.

"And what 'trait' would that be?" John asked suspiciously and crossed his arms over his chest. He could feel some of his fight returning.

"Loyalty, Dr. Watson." Mycroft even had the insolence to smirk.

Something snapped inside John, a floodgate most likely, because all the rage from the previous days came flooding in great waves. He stood so the chair fell over and slammed his palms at the desk. The cane was forgotten.

"Loyalty?! I had loyalty to him, not to you, you traitorous bastard! I will never be loyal to you! How dare you?" He felt his hands starting to shake. "And anyway, if I had loyalty 'in such great amounts' then I would have been on the roof together with him, not yelling at him and slam the door at him when he needed me the most! We would have fought Moriarty togeth-er." John felt his voice crack towards the end. God, he hated himself. He hated himself so intensely that it burned in his veins. No, there was nothing Mycroft could have done to prevent what happened, he wasn't to blame. There were lots of things John could have done, though, if he just hadn't been so stupid and blind.

Mycroft, however, looked unfazed, almost like he had expected this to happen. He sat down in his chair again and folded his hands in his business manner.

"Do you want to know what I think happened at the roof that day, Dr. Watson?" He continued without waiting for a response. "I think he sent you away, pissed you off more likely from what you're saying, and went up to meet Moriarty on the roof. Apparently Moriarty shot himself, and there is no reason to think Sherlock modified the scene. I don't know about Moriarty, but I know Sherlock wasn't suicidal. Some kind of game took place on that roof. There is no way Sherlock would have jumped to the promise of Moriarty killing himself, and why would Moriarty commit suicide after Sherlock had jumped? Based on this I'm fairly certain Moriarty died while Sherlock was still on the roof. Moriarty tried to make Sherlock jump, but apparently Sherlock found a way which he could use to get out of it. Maybe use Moriarty as hostage? But Moriarty killed himself to make certain Sherlock had to jump. He was crazy enough to do such a thing, I would know. So why did Sherlock have to jump when Moriarty was dead?"

Mycroft paused to look up at John who was still standing, expression blank, hands shaking lightly. It seemed like Mycroft was waiting to see if John could draw the conclusion himself. When nothing was said Mycroft continued.

"I think he threatened to kill you, Dr. Watson. And the only way to stop it was if Sherlock jumped." He waited some seconds to let the words sink in. "At least that's what I think happened. The only logical explanation I can come with. I could be wrong of course."

Slowly John bent down and pulled up the chair so he could sit down in it again. He held his head down the entire time so Mycroft couldn't see his eyes. His mind was blank, his thoughts blessedly still, with just a buzzing in the background. A buzzing he knew would be loud and agonizing when eventually went to sleep that night.

"Again, this proves that caring is not an advantage. But your loyalty isn't at fault here," Mycroft stated simply before pressing the intercom. "Anthea, could you be as kind as to bring us some tea. I think Dr. Watson needs some."

"What…" The voice was so low that Mycroft almost didn't hear it at first. "What kind of job are you offering me exactly?" John's voice was building slowly in strength until it was normal volume, but he still held his head low. "I don't have the training to be CIA or MI5 or anything. And right now I'm only a man with a tremor in his hand and a cane."

"Obviously I wouldn't make you a CIA agent. You would be working for me personally. I would offer you to be my… assistant," Mycroft said smugly. John raised his gaze and glared at him. At that moment Anthea entered with the tea. That would mean, tray with tea in one hand and phone in the other. Needless to say she was looking at the phone and not the tray as she walked. She must have had it ready before the call.

"Ah, Anthea. What would you say is your responsibilities as my assistant?" Mycroft asked her smoothly.

"I don't know. Making tea?" she answered while putting the tray at the desk, typing away at her phone at the same time.

"I mean more like…," he gestured with his hand to make her go on, "more like, how many men have you killed while in my employ?"

"Six," was the instant reply while she still typed. "Not counting the two who survived."

Mycroft turned smugly to John who's eyes were big as saucers.

"You see, my 'assistants' have many responsibilities. Of course I'll give you some time to think it over. You could come in tomorrow if convenient. But I have to warn you, I could be dangerous."

John's eyes got even larger if possible. That manipulating bastard! That was why Mycroft had kidnapped him for this 'interview' and even made the phone boots ring. He was trying to make John remember his first case with Sherlock and make him sentimental. He was trying to make him remember the night he got a purpose again after his return from Afghanistan. John rose again, but without knocking the chair over this time.

"You manipulating, crazy… freak! I told you I will never be loyal to you! Go fuck yourself with your umbrella!"

"You're saying Sherlock never tried to manipulate you?" Mycroft asked in his posh voice.

"That's it! I'm done here!" He marched out and even slammed the door like he had planned earlier. It was a satisfying sound.

The silence that followed was almost deafening.

"That didn't go overly well," Anthea stated after the room had gone quiet after John's departure.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so overly sure was I you." Mycroft's eyes fell on the forgotten cane that had fell to the floor.

* * *

**A/N: In this story Mycroft doesn't know that Sherlock is alive. I always found it unfair that he should tell Mycroft and not John. There is a shift in point of view in this story. Did anyone find it strange? Reviews are always welcome.**


	2. The Reunion

**A/N: Hello again. There has been a delay in the story because I have been without a laptop for a longer period this holiday. It won't be so long between chapters in the future. And it took some time to get the conversation the way I wanted in this chapter.**

**Thank you to those who followed and commented! Love! This story hasn't been brit-picked or betaed. Feel free to point out mistakes.**

Chapter 1

The Reunion

* * *

Mycroft was working on his computer in his office, overlooking file after file of plans for the next election. Things had to go smoothly, no matter what, so planning down to the least detail was crucial. It was a fine, sunny evening, but he didn't really care. It wasn't like he had time to bask in the sun anyway. All of his team was working overtime these days even though the election was months away.

The intercom buzzed and John's voice came out of the speakers.

"We have located an individual from the Amsterdam incident. He is boarded for a plane for London. I'm planning on letting him enter so we can apprehend him. Do I have your permission, sir?"

"Do we have a name?" Mycroft asked as he pressed the intercom, eyes never leaving the computer screen.

"His passport says 'Sigerson,' but it surely is a fake. He may be from the UK, and that's why he's returning here after the incident. Then we won't even get problems with the jurisdiction."

"Premission granted." Mycroft went back to scrolling through files.

John was surveying a war between two crime syndicates. After Moriarty's death his imperium had begun to crumble and other crime organizations had noticed the weakness and struck when it hurt the most. John had taken an interest about half a year ago when Moriarty's contacts in Berlin were, shall we say, obliterated. After that the remaining of the organization had its stronghold in Amsterdam. Just a week ago a man named Sebastian Moran was confirmed dead, and he was suspected of being the one in command of Moriarty's crumbling syndicate. That kind of thing needed a lot of clean up, if one wished to keep crime rites down, since it left a lot of smaller goons roaming aimlessly for ways to earn a living.

Mycroft wasn't surprised at John's interested in this. 'Let him have his revenge,' he thought. After three years, maybe to witness the downfall of Moriarty's imperium would give him some peace of mind. Mycroft couldn't allow himself to dwell on what laid in the past, he had to get over it and concentrate on the future. In that way John was all too sentimental, to a degree that he partly let it affect his work. He hid it well, surly, it was just that he couldn't hide it from Mycroft. The British Government smirked to himself, he would squeeze the reminding of the sentiment out of him one day.

* * *

Two days later Mycroft sat signing papers and mentally preparing for a meeting with the chief of police when a ghost walked through the door.

His coat was flaring behind him like it always did when he was in a hurry, but his hair was a tone lighter than it had been before.

"Mycroft, do you know where John lives or where he is working? He's no longer at Baker Street and doesn't work at his old workplace. I asked Molly, but she has no idea," he said in a bored and slightly annoyed voice.

It was like Mycroft's windpipe had constricted and he couldn't get enough air. He, Mycroft Holmes, had never in his life suffered a hallucination or any other kind of serious mental illnesses, not even in his deepest grief of his lost brother. Why now? Oh, God, he should file in his resignation papers right away. He couldn't risk the upcoming selection going wrong because he himself was unstable. It was really good that he was already sitting down.

But then he realized something was wrong. It wasn't just the hair that was lighter, but the coat wasn't the same as before. It was bright new, so new that he wouldn't be surprised if he spotted a price tag, and the shoes were shining, right from the store. Why would his brain make these changes to a hallucination? No, the only possible conclusion was that this was real. An imposter?

Mycroft's eyes met Sherlock's and they held each other's stare for a long moment. The seconds ticked by as Mycroft willed the imposter to break, but he only stared back. This was a game they had played since they were small, a game of wills, where the loser was the one to look away. The man in front of him knew the rules to this game and was not going to lose. It was a hard fact to accept, but this was undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes, alive, warm, breathing and insufferable. Mycroft asked the most logical question to ask at the moment:

"How did you get in here?" He was glad to hear his voice was strong and steady. That was good. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really? Your security is a joke. I practically strolled in here. You should fire them, they're clearly incompetent and…" It seemed like Sherlock was going to keep insulting his brother, when something behind Sherlock's back caught Mycroft's eyes. Something which made certain pieces fall into place.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, brother mine. It seems like you go a little… help."

Sherlock whirled around to see John standing in the door. He held a gun in his hand and his eyes were ablaze. The detective didn't even get to gather his thoughts before John lunged forward with the gun raised over his head. Sherlock raised his own hands in defense just in time to stop John from hitting him over the head with the gun handle. The handle instead hit Sherlock's wrist and he staggered back in pain, cradling his hand against his chest.

John lunged at him again, but this time Sherlock was better prepared. He stepped back and stopped John's arm with his left. John however hit again and again and again, and Sherlock had to step back each time to be able to block until he felt Mycroft's desk against his back. There was nowhere to go and he could only see the fury in John's eyes before the hard gun handle hit him at the side of the head. He managed to tear down a lot of paperwork from the desk as he went to the floor. Through blurred vision he saw Mycroft looking down on him with indifferent eyes.

* * *

There was pain. Sherlock slowly worked his way out of the fussy darkness of unconsciousness and he felt disorientated and confused. As the darkness behind his eyelids still clouded his mind he tried to concentrate on where it hurt. Mostly the head. Obviously, he added. And the wrist, it could be sprained or even broken. And… the ribs? Why did his _ribs_ hurt? Had John kicked him after he fell to the floor?

That made him wake up a little more. He realized he was resting his head at something soft, but not as soft as a pillow. It was something alive, and someone was combing fingers through his hair. He heard murmured voices, but his brain had a hard time making out what they said.

"Mhmh security uhmh knuhmh you can't just ghmh…"

"He is waking up."

The soft from under his head moved away and the fingers vanished. He was alone again.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and saw he was lying on the dark leather couch in Mycroft's office. His wrist was bandaged and he could feel the same on his head. Turning his head to the side he could see two painkillers and a glass of water stood neatly placed on the dark, polished coffee table, easily within reach. It was a still life with the title 'I'm sorry.' John's medical kit, the one he used to have at Baker Street and kept at the bathroom for emergencies, was still standing on the floor.

Now was the first time Sherlock had time to really look at John, deduce him. He had walked over to the window and crossed his arms over his chest. His posture was tense, uneasy. Possibly because he had kicked an unconscious man. He had black trousers, white shirt and a black tie. He had black shoulder holsters for his gun, worn like a backpack. Obviously, he was working for Mycroft now. Why else should he be here or be dressed like that or why would the medical kit be here when John was so insistent that it was so important to have a kit at home in case something happened. His cloths were clean and free of anything that wasn't John. No girlfriend, no dog, no kid. That was good.

"You look like a body guard," Sherlock said accusingly. He let his head fall back down on the sofa.

"Dr. Watson did indeed work as my body guard for a period of time. Until I realized his talent was better suited elsewhere," Mycroft said and looked smug and pleased. Sherlock was _so happy_ that he had come over the initial shock of his little brother being alive. John seemed to tense up even more. "Now he is in charge of monitoring terrorist activity and he is operation leader of smaller operations." At that Sherlock had to snort.

"Yeah. _Smaller_ operations. Just like you have a _minor_ position in the British Government."

Now John was so tense and his shoulders were so high up that he almost didn't have a neck. It was then Sherlock realized where John was standing. Where he was standing by the window he was just as far away from Mycroft as he was from Sherlock. He was distancing himself from the both of them and with his body language showing that he took neither side. As Mycroft former Body guard he should have stood by his side, but as Sherlock's friend he should have stood by his. He was standing in no man's land.

"How did you know I was alive, John?" Sherlock asked instead. The rage and fury in John's eyes earlier was not of surprise, but anger built up over time. The way Mycroft held quiet and watched intently gave away how interested he was in that question as well.

"I didn't know," John shrugged and looked down. "I really didn't. I just hoped… Dreamt maybe." He looked up again to see both the brothers had an eyebrow raised and was eyeing him disbelievingly.

"Now, Dr. Watson, after the incidents of this afternoon I've realized that you have known, or at least suspected, for nearly six months that my brother was alive." The disapproving tone in Mycroft's voice was evident. The man did _not_ like to not know things. 'Things' being everything from knowing that the prime minister was caught in traffic and would be 3 minutes late to his office to knowing that his baby brother wasn't actually dead. "Not only that, but you made sure he got a free pass into the UK and even made security let him into this very building. I don't need to tell you how big an offence this is."

Sherlock looked shocked, eyes wide and sitting halfway up in the couch. John would have been proud to make him look like that in any other setting. If it had been three years ago, of course. John shock his head.

"I honestly didn't know." He held his arms closer to his chest and looked somewhat embarrassed. "I thought it was just a… fantasy of sorts. I followed the incident in Berlin and there were so many things about the whole affair that reminded me of you. The two rivaling gangs tricked each other in so elaborate ways that I couldn't help thinking that was how you would have done it if you were still alive: Trick them into fighting each other with an elaborate scheme then you could just stand back and watch." Sherlock noticed how John looked down and apparently was speaking to neither of them, but it was Sherlock he was addressing.

"But when I had thought the thought, I just couldn't let it go. It was practically impossible to get visuals of anyone involved, so I thought if I could just get this 'Sigerson' into the UK so I could see him at the CCTV at the airport and see that it wasn't you then I would be able to forget the whole thing."

"Aha," breathed Sherlock, as he had now sat up on the couch and his fingers was forming a pyramid against his lips. It was enough to make a lump form in John's throat. "So I arrived at the airport and you saw me. I wasn't trying to disguise myself anymore…"

"Your hair was blond, though," John said with a small grin. "You've coloured your hair dark again during the last days."

"And I got some new cloths," Sherlock grinned back at him. The urge to say 'obvisously' was there, but he didn't want to ruin the small smile on John's face. "I wanted to look presentable." And with 'presentable' he meant 'like myself.'

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Yes, this is very touching and everything, but it is a fact that for two days you've known for sure that my sibling is alive and kept it from me. How do you justify that I, his own brother, has less right to know this than you?" John opened his mouth to answer him, but at that moment Anthea entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits. And a phone of course, which was not the blackberry anymore, but still.

"Mr. Holmes. Black, two sugars," she said and offered Sherlock to pick his coffee off the tray. She wasn't going to hand it to him because her hand was busy with the phone. Mycroft sighed and buried his face in his hand.

"Anthea, how long have you known?" he said wearily.

"Two days maybe. Why?" she answered while offering John to pick his coffee off the tray.

"Does nobody here think I had the right to know?!" Mycroft almost threw his hands in the air. Just almost.

"I hacked his work when John was being a bit too secretive. He asked me not to tell you. He was going to let you know the best way possible." Mycroft urged her to go on by lifting an eyebrow as she placed the tray on his table. "Well, better proof you couldn't possibly ask for, sir," she said and gestured at Sherlock sitting on the couch sipping his coffee, mindful of his injured wrist.

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**A/N: I don't plan on ending every chapter with an entrance from Anthea. I just like her. Reviews are love.**


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